When all that was done, the diagnosis was in. Cancer.

When I first heard the word “cancer” spoken by my pulmonologist, I immediately assumed I was receiving a death sentence. My life flashed before my eyes, and everything I’d ever wanted to accomplish seemed suddenly out of reach. I could not accept the notion of losing those I loved. I went into a panic, unable to gather my thoughts. The only thing my body was capable of doing at that point was gathering what was left of its diminishing strength to utter what seemed like a bottomless, gut-wrenching “Nooooooo!”

By this time, my parents had already learned of the diagnosis. The pulmonologist asked them to wait down the hall until he informed me himself. My parents were told it could make things worse if they were in the room with me. But to this day, they seem haunted when they recall hearing my heart-wrenching scream. Nevertheless, they were a great source of comfort when they were finally permitted to enter my room, only to find me curled up in a ball, filled with fear and confusion. I don’t remember what was said at that point, but I do remember the relief I felt that they were with me.

Later that night, a priest came to my room. Unfamiliar with the hospital routines, I misinterpreted the purpose of his informal visit. As a Roman Catholic, I was certain he was there to anoint me with the final sacrament – the Last Rites. My heart stopped when he approached my bed, my breathing became rapid, and through my tears I ordered him out of the room and told him never to come back. Afterwards I shook for hours. I was not ready to meet my Maker, nor was I prepared to say good-bye to my life.

I was, however, about to say good-bye to my life as I knew it. Prepared or not, the moment I received my diagnosis my life was altered for good.

When that day had begun, I was twenty-five years young, living at home with my family, and pretty much just drifting through life. My existence was not very deep. I was not the type who took the time to stop and smell the roses or to feel the velvety beauty of their soft petals. But by nightfall, having received this horrific diagnosis, my sense of a future full of relatively carefree days had come to a jolting halt. As I tried to fall asleep, terror gave way to an imagined future of doctors and tests and treatments that would make me feel worse than I already did.

I had no way of knowing then that cancer would hardly be the end of my carefree life. In fact, more accurately, it heralded a new beginning – a less carefree approach and a more life-filled manner of living.